An Inevitable Reminiscence
by MistyGlow23
Summary: 'I am not a man of sentiment. Yet, the eyes of Harry Potter dragged me back...back ten years ago to an eerie, starless night in Godric's Hollow; that would forever alter the course of fate.' Oneshot, Snape POV. Set as Harry begins his first year.


I despise feasts. From the constant, aggravating gargle of children's babbling, to the dreary and forced polite chatter on the staff table: I despise it all. Not only are such events an aggravating interruption unto my otherwise organised routine, but by hosting such large, chaotic gatherings, the school may as well be pasting banners around the school asking the students for trouble. The pranksters, rebels, and shirkers all concentrated into one room? Not the ideal predicament for maintaining _any_ illusion of order.

Nevertheless- like the potion lessons that I teach to class after class of blunderheads- each feast must be endured, however tedious; and so it was that I found myself yet again at another start of year feast, in exactly the same spot on the staff table that I had occupied in previous years, staring vacantly at the dopey expressions of yet another set of new students as they trundled into the Great Hall and oggled at their new surroundings. I was vaguely aware of the new teacher, Professor Quirrel nattering something trivial into my right ear whilst I stared on blankly, having abandoned all pretence of listening to whatever his latest anecdote concerning his holiday entailed.

As always, the faithful Sorting Hat delivered it's annual song exactly fifteen minutes into the feast and I resisted the urge to groan as Professor McGonagall began to name after name to be sorted, like an insistent and dreary drone.

_'Ron Weasley-Gryffindor!.' _Great, another red-headed troublemaker.

_'Gregory Goyle-Slytherin!' _His gormless expression looks as if it could rival even that of his father's.

_'Harry Potter!' _It was at this moment that I found myself for the first time ever, grateful for noise within for the room, as it smothered the audible gasp I emitted unexpectedly. Several hundred pairs of eyes swept upwards in a rushed unison, eager to catch a first glance as the Boy Who Lived. But it was not the boy's legacy that propelled even me to stare, entranced like everyone else as he mounted the stool. He could have been just another newcomer whom nobody had heard of, and still I would have been unable to resist the urge to stare. Because this was _Lily Potter's_ son.

But as I stared, I found to my remorse that the boy bore no resemblance to his mother. On the contrary, he could have been an exact replicate of James-the same arrogant gait, and the same lips that had so spent so much time curled into a condescending sneer. With such a striking similarity, I'd be damned if he wasn't as supercilious and selfish as his father in that respect too.

As the dark haired boy shifted (to my surprise) nervously on the stool, he jerked the tattered hat over his eyes and glanced tentatively upwards.

As a general rule, I am not a man of sentiment. I rarely possess- or are able to tolerate - such feeble, and weak _feelings_ for any object, possession, or person. But I found that the eyes of Harry Potter, dragged me back...back ten years ago to an eerie, starless night that would forever alter the course of fate.

***Godric's Hollow, 10 years ago***

The night sky was a deathly, uninterrupted expanse of black, and the cold winter air stung persistently. I stood in the doorway of the house at Godric's Hollow. The dark magic in this place was fresh. I could feel it-oozing into the atmosphere, smothering the walls, dripping from the floorboards. Yet, this raw and dark magic stood overshadowed by a single other scent. Death. It swung heavily from every beam, suffocating the air and swirling fearlessly where it pleased.

I inhaled its sickly aroma sharply, and proceeded into the house. The lifeless form of James Potter lay sprawled across the corridor, his final fearful expression plastered eternally on his face. _Oh god, please not her too. _Surely the Dark Lord was only after the boy? Surely there was no need to kill her too? I crept cautiously and slowly up the darkened staircase and into the open nursery. _No. No...she can't be... _The room lay in state of desperate disarray. Chunks of blown-up wall sat in heaps across the charred floor; a shower of chips fell from the newly shattered window. A chubby baby sat silently in a wooden cot, with a curiously shaped scar etched freshly onto his forehead. But what made me lurch was the still form that lay crumpled on the ground. The striking, emerald green eyes of Lily Potter were staring straight back at me, filmed over, and forever unseeing.

***Present day***

'P-pp-professor Sn-Sna-Snape?' The jerky, broken voice of Professor Quirrel yanked me back into the Great Hall.

'Roa-roast pot-tatoes are n-nice aren't the-they?'

I muttered something dismissive in return and continued to look on as the boy who I'd last seen ten years ago as a helpless baby made his way to the Gryffindor table. _Already _starting to follow in his father's footsteps I noted. I knew that I must ultimately protect the boy-for Lily's sake-but that didn't mean I had to _like _him. On the contrary, I could no longer loathe James for taking Lily away; but I could still loathe his son. I could still loathe _him_ for being so like his father, and for serving as a constant, living reminder of everything lost to me that fateful night.


End file.
